Page 3 of A Lady's Wager
“Each time he writes. He says you make him send letters.” She laughed softly, then quickly sobered. “But that doesn’t give you reason to enter into a duel over my dancing with Mr. Haltwhistle.”
He raised his hands. “There will be no duel, never you fear.”
She gestured the direction Mr. Haltwhistle had gone. “I heard him call you out.”
“I wouldn’t trust that man to know how to handle a pistol. Or a sword, for that matter.” He’d faced a healthy share of peacocks like Haltwhistle, too full of pride and confidence intheir own abilities to see their incompetence. “The ones without knowledge of weapons can be more dangerous than the ones who know what they’re doing. I intend to avoid dueling that overly powdered baboon at all costs.”
Her lips pressed together in a way that clearly read she didn’t trust his words. “You are quite…unique in your insults.”
“Why offend someone if you cannot have some fun with it?” He offered her his arm. They’d be late to supper and cause another scene. While he didn’t mind, something told him he’d drawn too much attention to Miss Bradford for her comfort that night. “Shall we go in?”
“You won’t duel him, then?”
He grinned at the concern in her eyes. Usually, the only concern he received was from friends of his late parents. People who had no sway over him but wished they did when they pressed him for details about his life. “I will not.”
“Do you promise?”
She looked so much like her brother, especially when he was seriously attending to his duties. Their brows pinched in the same way when troubled, and their eyes narrowed as though the stress of it pained them. He wanted to reach out and smooth the worry away. Which would be a terrible idea, as they’d only just met.
“I promise, on my honor as an officer of the navy. I shall not engage that—”
“‘Blithering, addlepated son of a blunderbuss?’” she finished. She slipped her hand back around his arm.
“That’s one of my better ones, if I do say so myself.”
Her lips turned upward. The warm light of the corridor’s chandeliers twinkled in the little jewel she wore about her neck and washed over the silk ribbons woven into her softly powdered hair. “I see you are like Richard in that you both enjoy hearing yourselves speak.”
Indeed, though he would keep quiet to listen to her. “I cannot refute it, I am afraid.” Could he maneuver them to a table with silent supper partners? Or perhaps louder neighbors would be better, as it would award them more privacy. He matched her unhurried pace as he led her to the refreshment room. After hearing so many stories about this young woman, to the point it seemed he knew her before they’d met, standing beside her felt surreal.
Miss Bradford balked at the entrance. She scanned the guests already seated, then her shoulders sank.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, placing his free hand over hers. Was it because they were conversing without proper introduction? “I’ll tell them we were introduced.”
She shook her head, the little curls of her coiffure swaying. “It isn’t that.”
“What is it, then? Allow me to assist you.” It was the least he could do for the sister of his very young comrade.
“You cannot turn back time, and therefore, there is no way to amend it.” She sighed. “I have only lost a ridiculous wager, and I fear there will be rather humiliating consequences.”
“Shall I have words with the bettor on your behalf?”
“Heavens. Please do nothing of the sort,” she said quickly.
“I shall draw up my best insults for him.”
Her lips twitched. “I’m certain you would.” She did not say it with frustration or condescension. The friendly tease in her tone lit something inside him he hadn’t felt in ages. Perhaps, for once, he could enjoy himself in this place he’d chosen to occupy between assignments. He wouldn’t go so far as to wonder if he could call it home, but for this moment in the company of a fetching young woman, he could pretend that home was not an unreachable dream.
Corah kept her face impassive during Melinda’s lament. Her cousin threw her arms around the bedpost and laid her head against the carved wood in the image of a hopeless Andromeda.
“How can it be we both lost our wagers?”
Corah removed the last pin from her hair and massaged her aching scalp. They’d returned so late, she hadn’t bothered to ring for Jemima, the maid she and Melinda shared. “I told you the wagers were ridiculous.”
Melinda’s mouth turned down into a pout. “You sound as though you don’t care about singing ‘Little Bingo’ at the crack of dawn before everyone in Portland Square.” The last came out in a squeak as she no doubt imagined Society matrons and gentlemen alike poking their heads out of windows, nightcaps and all, to investigate the early crooning. “Why does it have to be Portland Square?” she whimpered.
Corah took up her brush and began the task of preparing her hair for bed, brushing with methodical strokes. “Because that is where Alexandra Whiting lives. She wouldn’t be bothered with rising that early to make sure her victims perform their punishment properly.”
“Victims!” Melinda sank onto the bed, her dark eyes wide. “Miss Whiting is not so much a villain as that.”
